Seeking What We Lost

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(A Reflection on Re-Enchantment)

I have been called many things. Druid. Pagan. Hermeticist. Blasphemer. Heretic.
But I am none of these—not in rebellion and not in rejection.
I am a witness.
A witness to a world that still pulses with sacredness, even when we forget how to see it.

I do not seek escape from the Christian story. I seek to remember it rightly.
To peel back the layers of reduction and theological coldness.
To unbury the burning bush, the whispering wind, the God who walks in gardens and speaks through dreams.

We have traded mystery for machinery, wonder for certainty.
We flattened the world, dissected it, explained it to death.
And in doing so, we lost the enchantment that once made faith burn like fire.
But the sacred is not gone.
It is waiting to be remembered.

We live in a disenchanted age. Philosopher Charles Taylor calls it “the buffered self”—a soul that cannot hear the cosmos sing.
We have grown deaf to creation's music.

J.R.R. Tolkien saw this clearly.
“Our myths may be misguided,” he wrote, “but they steer however shakily towards the true harbour, while materialistic ‘progress’ leads only to a yawning abyss and the Iron Crown of the power of evil.”
Tolkien understood that fantasy is not escapism.
It is resistance.
A protest against the machine.
A way to remember that the world is more than what it seems.

Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. echoed this.
“There is a creative force in this universe,” he preached, “working to pull down the gigantic mountains of evil, a power that is able to make a way out of no way and transform dark yesterdays into bright tomorrows.”

This is not mechanistic theology.
This is enchanted hope.

The Bible is not a manual—it is a mythic map.
It speaks in signs and wonders, not steps and rules.
Burning bushes. Talking donkeys. Angels in disguise. Seas that split like scrolls.
And at the center of it all: a God who multiplies bread, walks on waves, turns water into wine, and breaks death like a loaf of bread.

Jesus was not tame.
He was enchanted.

To reclaim enchantment is not to abandon Scripture.
It is to see it with open eyes.
To pray like poets, not programmers.
To meditate as communion, not calculation.
To regard nature not as resource, but as cathedral.
To welcome mystery not as threat, but as friend.

The veil was torn—not to expose God, but to invite us in.

So yes, call me a druid.
Call me a pagan.
Call me a heretic if you must.
But know this: I am not trying to escape God.
I am trying to find Him in the places we forgot to look.
To see how the ancients saw.
To find the sacred in soil, the divine in dance, the Spirit in silence.
To remember that the world is not neutral.
It is holy.

Re-enchantment is not nostalgia.
It is resurrection.
It is the Spirit hovering over the waters again.
It is breath returning to dry bones.
It is the Church remembering she is not a building.
She is a burning bush.

Tolkien said it best:
“Fantasy is escapist, and that is its glory. If we value the freedom of mind and soul—if we're partisans of liberty—then it's our plain duty to escape, and to take as many people with us as we can.”

This is not escape from reality.
It is escape into reality.
Into the deeper truth that the world is charged with the grandeur of God.

We must rediscover what the ancients never forgot.
Movements like neopaganism and modern druidry are not mistakes.
They are symptoms—responses to a church that misplaced its wonder.
Faith, as it’s often taught now, demands death before mystery.
But this is not the way of Christ.
He said the kingdom of God is in our midst.